Cigarettes
by Cheylouwho
Summary: "I think you need to go take a smoke." /CREEK, minor CRENNY. Rated M for alcohol, drugs, and references to sexual activity/


_Yeah, yeah, yeah, a fanfic from Chey AKA SOMETHING THAT HASN'T HAPPENED IN A BILLION YEARS WOW LOOK AT THAT_

_For now, this is a one shot. I might write more, maybe not. I'm pretty __inconstant._

_In all seriousness though, this is my first for South Park as well as my first Creek. I hope it's not too __awful or OOC...__I'm a bit rusty u_

* * *

><p>CIGARETTES<p>

* * *

><p>Tweek hates the fact that I smoke.<p>

He hates the way it smells on my clothes when he washes them, the way it tastes on my breath when I kiss him after work. He worries that if I do it in the house he will breathe it and get cancer and die, and it's all too much pressure for him to handle.

His shaky nature causes him to be sensitive like that. He can blame his caffeine addiction. He has his escape; I have mine. He tries not to bring it up too much.

* * *

><p>We sit at the dinner table, eating cheap noodles and some vegetables he's chopped up in an uneven pattern. Some are large, some are small. Each one is a little different, like snowflakes. I don't complain. He came home late from a second shift, tired out of his mind and twitching more than usual, worried about how late we were eating and how the food would sit in our stomachs and make it hard to sleep.<p>

He worries about trivial things like that.

His hands shake, barely able to hold the metal spoon as he rubs his thumb against the papers sitting on the table. Our paychecks came today, the blue and yellow envelopes already opened.

He's worried. Always worried.

"You ok?" I ask, blankly, still staring out the window. It's wet outside from a storm, but the sun has started to peak back out.

"Ngh. No."

No? He usually puts on a fake smile and says it's fine.

"Then what's wrong?" I know damn well what's wrong. I skipped too many days of work this month, got my pay docked severely.

He doesn't say anything though. He just keeps shaking his spoon, nervously pushing the envelopes around. The longer I stare at the yellow one the more sick I feel.

"I didn't mean to," I say.

"Didn't... Didn't mean to?" He says, looking up from the miserable stack of papers our lives depend on, letting the spoon fall into the soup. "How do you not mean to fuck up so badly? H-how do you miss so much-ngh- WORK?"

Shit. "I'm sorry... I just..."

"I think you need to go take a smoke," he says shakily, his eyes drifting towards the crisp, unopened pack on the counter.

I know I've upset him when he says that. It's his way to tell me to leave, to let him think, to stop stressing him out. So I swipe the pack off the counter on the way to the apartment balcony. I'm not supposed to smoke out here, the landlord doesn't allow it.

I don't care.

* * *

><p>Later that week, we get a text from Kenny to come hang out at the bar.<p>

"I d-don't want to go," he says as he does laundry on the couch, taking sips of coffee between folds. "We have work t-tomorrow, and you'll get drunk." He flinches, takes another sip, flinches again.

"I won't get drunk," I tell him, tucking my hand into my back pocket and pulling out the half empty box of cancer.

"Don't do it in the house," he says absentmindedly. His fingers carefully laying the shirts in neat piles, his and mine. "I don't want to smell it. It m-makes me sick."

I tuck them back away. "Wasn't going to."

"You're a horrible -ngh- liar."

I shrug, eyeing the open text on my phone. "We should go though."

"We can't afford to g-go out. Not with how you get paid... Ngh... Not with how much we spend on your crap." He eyes the hand that still rests partially in my cigarette pocket.

I feel the want to tell him how much his coffee cost too, but that's only going to upset him more. Instead I shrug it off, ignoring the guilt that's settling in.

"A little fun isn't going to hurt anything." I lean over, kiss him on the cheek. "I'll tell them we're coming."

* * *

><p>We end up in the bar with McCormick and Donovan.<p>

"I want another drink," I say, already have had 2.

"You d-don't need another," Tweek tells me, "you have work."

"Give him another, dude," Kenny slurs, grabbing Tweek's shoulder and laughing drunkenly.

He pushes him off, looks at me with his wide eyes, fingers tapping nervously on the table, his other hand reaching for his coffee. He doesn't drink alcohol, just his caffeine. He drinks it when he's stressed, and it stresses him out more until he gets worked up and I have to calm him down.

The empty hand taps in patterns.

Patterns usually calm him down. They are even. Predictable. Unlike me.

With disregard to my lover, I order another drink. And another.

I don't even remember what I said or what happened next, but all I know was that I felt a kick to my shin and Tweek hissing to me.

"I think you need to step out and take a smoke."

* * *

><p>I wake up the next morning, extremely hung over. The alarm beep hurt my head, my body feels gross.<p>

This isn't the first time. It probably won't be the last.

I roll over, finding Tweek's side of the bed empty. He was already at work. The sooner he got there the more hours he could put in and the more money he could make to cover for me.

I should have gotten up an hour ago but here I am, too out of it to even feel guilty.

I grab a new pack sitting on the nightstand and smoke nearly the whole thing, right there in the bed.

I'm not going to work.

He comes home really late. Today he took three shifts, when he normally only takes two. When he finds me in bed he screams at me, shaking like a leaf blown by an angry wind, his face becoming red.

"I told you!" He cries over and over. "I told you that you would miss work if you got drunk!"

I can't even think, my head pounds from the noise. I lift up the last cigarette, making a show of lighting it before taking a puff of the awful garbage and letting it corrupt my insides. I'm already a disgusting human; a little more gross isn't going to do much.

He stops mid-sentence, staring at the smoke wafting from where I sit. His hands fly to his mouth, and at first I think it's because of his fear of inhaling it, but then I realize- he's in disbelief. He can't tell me to take a smoke. I already am.

He turns away, running out of the room. He doesn't even bother with me for the rest of the night.

My partner sleeps on the couch.

* * *

><p>The next morning I wake up and get ready for work as I'm supposed to. I get cleaned up, smoke a cigarette on the balcony, watch the sun rise. It's kinda nice.<p>

I miss when Tweek didn't wake up so early to work an extra shift, when we didn't need to extra money to buy the shit pressed between my two left fingers. We would watch the sun together.

I snuff out the end and toss the empty butt into the trash.

* * *

><p>I work a long day, but when it's over I can't wait to get home to Tweek, apologize for the previous night like I always do when I get drunk.<p>

Beep beep goes my phone.

_Ken: u wanna hang_

I stare at my phone, having just sat down in the car.

_Me: idk gotta get home to tweek_

_Me: why_

I fiddle with the car keys, waiting for a response.

_Ken: bc I wanna hang with u dude just meet me at the bar for like an hr _

_Ken: tell ur bf you will be home late_

I consider. Tweek would probably tell me no.

But he isn't here.

_Me: ya sure i will send him a text and meet you there soon_

I shoot Tweek a text, telling him I'm going to be late. I lie and say I'm staying late at work today. It should buy me a few hours.

I drive to the bar to meet Ken.

I meet him there, with Clyde. Since they room in an apartment together, he usually comes along to stuff. Unlike me and Tweek though, they have no connection other than friends.

As usual, one drink turns into many. Cigarettes are smoked, our bodies becoming numb and disconnected.

"You should come back to our place..." Ken mumbles to me. "Crash...since it's a long drive. We can taxi and shit over...there."

I agree. My drunk mind thinks it's a great idea and we call a cab to take us.

We arrive at their shitty apartment- it smells like drugs and alcohol.

I don't really seem to know what's going on until me and Ken somehow end up on his bed, doing things only me and Tweek ever should.

But I didn't care, I was drunk.

* * *

><p>I wake up in his bed, slowly realizing what happened. I throw some pants on, grab a cigarette and my phone, walk to his balcony.<p>

Clyde's already out there, texting on his phone. He nods at me. I nod back.

I check my messages.

_Tweekers: ok then see you soon _

_Tweekers: are you really working this late?_

_Tweekers: craig I'm getting nervous where are you _

_Tweekers: craig_

_Tweekers: pick up your phone_

_Tweekers: come home now_

* * *

><p>I walk through the door of my apartment, looking like a mess, a cigarette between my teeth.<p>

He's standing in the doorway, clutching the ends of his shirt. It's wet with tear stains and mucus. He's been crying into it.

"I know what you did" he says softly, trembling.

I don't say anything at first. "Heh, what? I didn't do anything."

"You're a terrIBLE LIAR!" He shouts, tears pouring from his eyes. "Clyde told me! He t-told me what h-happened!"

I pull the cigarette out of my mouth, holding it between two fingers. "Tweek, I wouldn't have done what you think I did!" I shout, lunging towards him.

"But you d-did!" He yells back, grabbing the wrist of the hand where the cigarette sits. "YOU FUCKED MCCORMICK LAST NIGHT WHILE YOU WERE DRUNK!"

I twist my hand, the cigarette falling from my fingers and hitting the carpet with a hiss. I quickly stomp it out.

He lets go of me.

"I think you need to go..." he says quietly, sniffling.

That was my last cig of the pack, so I go to grab a full one sitting on the table nearby.

"N-no." He looks at me coldly. "Not to smoke. I want you to leave."

I feel my heart pound, a lump forming in my throat.

I fucked up.

I fucked up so badly.

I feel myself shaking, just like Tweek does every minute of the day. Slowly, I drag myself to the door, and exit our apartment- no, his apartment- to the sound of his sobs.


End file.
